Hermione turned sharply to face my parents sitting opposite, who simply nodded with solemn expressions.
— Is that why you're so… so detached?
— Not detached, — I smiled. — Simply — the range within which my emotions fluctuate, I consciously keep narrow. And for powerful wizards that automatically helps stabilise moods, emotional swings, the degree to which hormones influence the mind, and so forth. A calm mind — a calm flow of magic through the body. A calm flow of magic through the body — a smooth running of internal processes. A smooth running of processes — a calm mind. A circle in which everything is connected. The moment one variable changes, the others change with it.
— All right, that's plausible, — Hermione conceded. — But then why does nobody teach this? It would give wizards considerably more capability.
— It's far more difficult, — I shrugged. — And I'm sure there are other reasons as well.
— Here, I think — my father spoke up, giving me a break and a chance to actually eat, which I immediately took full advantage of — even I can see a certain logic. The way it seems to me…
He leaned forward over the table.
— …Every Muggle-born wizard is obliged to attend training. What happens if they refuse — I honestly don't know, it was never a thought that crossed our minds. Correct?
I nodded without looking up from my food. Hermione nodded as well.
— Your Professor McGonagall mentioned that an untrained wizard is dangerous. Not only to everyone around them, but to themselves. If one takes Hector's reasoning as having a genuine basis in fact, and considers that after you went off to Hogwarts, no more spontaneous incidents occurred… None did occur, did they?
— Actually, no, — Hermione shook her head. — I'd never even thought about it. Nothing happened.
— Excellent, — Dad smiled slightly. — Taking all of these factors into account, one can arrive at a fairly simple conclusion. Training in magic — by your methods — is not only education. It's also psychological conditioning.
— Conditioning?
— Yes, — Dad's smile broadened slightly, and catching the faint smile on my chewing face, he felt confirmed in his thinking. — Most likely, certain ideas are gently instilled. That casting without a wand is impossible. That wandless magic is the province of great wizards. That casting requires a precise sequence of specific actions. And so various other thoughts are quietly embedded. The end result — that thought is always present at the back of one's mind, always flickering somewhere in one's head, and even during strong emotional surges it prevents that magic of yours from moving in any particular direction. It — your magic — most likely simply dissipates, disperses, having found no given course.
— Precisely, — I agreed, having finished with the meat and now proceeding at a considerably more measured pace with everything else. — Magic is simply energy. It has no colour, no shade, no direction, no will of its own, nothing of the sort. Our magic isn't like magic in fairy tales or board games, with "fire magic and water magic and all the rest"…
Though in the larger, more universal sense, that isn't entirely accurate — but in our specific reality, it is. Wizarding magic is neutral. Which means one can be content to leave it at that.
— …If we had something like fire magic, for instance, — I continued, — a spontaneous burst of it would never come to nothing — something would definitely ignite. But our magic… Hm. The more precise way of putting it would be "magic of everything." Without at least some degree of directed aim, it simply disperses into absolutely everything. Given the enormous number of processes and phenomena occurring within us and around us every second, the vast energetic potential inherent in space and matter — a burst of that kind produces precisely nothing. It simply isn't sufficient — catastrophically insufficient — to simultaneously actualise all things at once, to shift "everything in general" from its place.
— That sounds like complete nonsense, — Hermione stared with deep scepticism into her half-empty cup of tea.
— You attend a school of witchcraft and wizardry, — Mum said with a smile, — and conversations about metaphysical matters strike you as nonsense?
— Ha, — I smiled, glancing at Mum. — It's simply that none of this is written in books, and none of us here are authoritative sources on the subject.
I gave Hermione an affectionate pat on the head — out of brotherly feeling — which made her puff up like a hamster, and smiled.
— It's hard being you, Mione.
— Right, don't do that, — she removed her head from harm's way.
— In any case, — I returned to my food. — Every wizard constructs their own internal framework for magic, their own concept. And if something doesn't fit within it, you won't do it accidentally — not ever. Simply because in your mind it's impossible. Impossible in your mind — it won't manifest in your magic either. Though there's one thing I want to caution you against, and another I want to suggest.
— Go on, then, best dueller at Hogwarts.
— Was that sarcasm? Fine. The spells you read about in the Black family's books — don't use them. Place a mental prohibition on them, so they can't surface even by accident. With your memory, I'm certain you can recite every one of those books word for word. Which means that during an emotional surge — hurt feelings, anger at someone — there's a real chance those texts and formulas might flash through your mind and direct magic… somewhere you wouldn't want it to go.
— I would never use that filth in my life…
— What filth? — Dad asked immediately, and Mum looked concerned.
Ignoring them both, I continued:
— My suggestion is simple — study techniques for controlling the mind. They don't need to be magical — that's irrelevant. Read, sit with it, practise. And one more thing.
I looked at my parents and sister without any trace of levity, drawing their attention and signalling, as clearly as I could, that the time for jokes had passed. I held the silence for a couple of seconds.
— I have information from a reliable source. A certain Dark Lord, currently at large in the magical world, has issued an ultimatum to the Minister for Magic.
Hermione immediately went entirely still and focused.
— What ultimatum?
— Either Minister Crouch surrenders his authority to the Dark Lord and disbands his apparatus in favour of the Dark Lord's supporters — or the Dark Lord and his associates begin mass killings. Of ordinary people, naturally. And possibly others as well. Crouch will not surrender — that's a certainty. So…
From my rucksack, which I'd set beside me out of habit, I pulled out a ring and handed it to Hermione. The ring that allowed spellcasting within the house.
— I've warded our home and the area around it. Spellcasting is impossible here without this. Put a drop of blood on the ring so only you can use it.
— That's not Dark Magic, is it…
— Don't you want the ability to protect our parents?
— We are, in fact, right here, — Dad noted. — And what about the killings?
What followed was the most typical sort of family council for exactly this kind of situation — who, where, what, why, and should we leave? The conversation brought back to me my earlier thoughts about how one particular facet of my self saw leaving as an excellent option. The facet that had simply been human. Without abilities. Without power. Without influence of any kind. A person who, in situations like this, could only choose to go out and die if he wished to offer any resistance to forces immeasurably beyond his own. Not a hero, but not a coward either. Simply rational. And it truly is a rational thought for many — a sensible thought.
Something resembling an actual reasonable conclusion began to emerge from the family council after roughly twenty minutes.
— I'm not going anywhere, — I stated plainly. — Just making that clear, in advance. I have sufficient strength to protect myself and those close to me. Particularly in the event of a mass… ahem… In the event of a catastrophe, I'll be far better placed to hold my own among other wizards. So I'm staying, regardless. And you have a degree of protection as well.
— We haven't actually decided anything yet, — Dad pointed out. — We haven't even decided whether the two of you should return to Hogwarts. You've both received the minimum compulsory education, after all.
— Dad! — Hermione protested, while I simply nodded.
— That's reasonable.
— Hector!
— What? — I looked at my outraged sister. — It genuinely is reasonable for ordinary people. The thing is — even an ordinary person could surround themselves with every modern means of protection and self-defence available. Machine guns on the perimeter, surveillance systems, sensors of every kind… But two simple spells, and no surveillance system will detect a wizard. No ordinary person will see a wizard. And there is nothing to be done about that. You cannot defend against a threat you cannot see, touch, or even register.
— But… — Hermione wanted to object to something, but I kept going.
— However resolute and prepared Mum and Dad might be — especially Dad, after his military service, and quite a long stretch of it at that — it simply wouldn't matter.
— That's rather unpleasant to hear, — Dad said coolly. — What kind of parents would we be…
— An experiment, — I cut off further reflection on the subject. — I'll conceal myself from ordinary people right now with a couple of simple charms, stand right here, and stay put.
I indicated the space behind Hermione's chair.
— Your task, Dad, is to find me. By touch, however you like. You can even try throwing things at me.
— Right then, — he nodded, decisively.
— What a ridiculous idea, — Hermione shook her head, while Mum — concerned about everything, as she was — simply smiled at her and said:
— Boys.
I stood up from the table and moved to stand behind Hermione's chair. She herself twisted sideways in her seat so she could see both me and whatever Dad was about to do.
— Ready?
— Yes, — Dad nodded.
Without any wand or accessories, I concealed myself using Muggle-repelling charms and an attention-deflecting jinx.
— Hm… — Dad's gaze wandered straight past the spot where I was standing.
— Remarkable, — Mum had the same reaction.
— Have you already hidden yourself? — Hermione asked.
— Who are you talking to, sweetheart? — Dad looked puzzled — and then looked quite substantially more puzzled. — Hm. Where's Hector? Strange thought to be having.
Hermione stood up from her chair and pointed directly at me.
— He's here.
— Where? — Dad tried to look in the direction Hermione was pointing, directly toward me. — Interesting magic.
— Remarkable, — Mum said again. — When I ask myself "where is Hector," I know he's not here. But I remember from our conversation that he should be here. And yet I believe that he's not. My head hurts trying to hold that together…
She rubbed her temples.
— Dad. Come this way, — Hermione said, placing her hand about a metre to my side. Dad walked over.
— Hector, say something.
— I can say whatever I like and they won't hear a word of it. I could shout, sing songs, dance. I could point my wand at them and they wouldn't notice.
Hermione could clearly read from my parents' expressions that my words were reaching neither of them. Dad had moved to where Hermione indicated. We were now standing in line — but when he went to reply to Hermione, he unconsciously shifted slightly to one side to see her better. I was standing in his direct line of sight.
— Why did you step aside? — Hermione asked.
— Step aside? I didn't notice, — Dad frowned.
— You did, you did, — Mum smiled.
— Strange.
— Right, Dad — Hector is directly in front of you. Reach out your hand.
He reached out his hand and… missed me entirely.
— Are you doing that deliberately? — Hermione frowned.
— What's wrong? — Dad looked indignant.
— A little to the left…
Dad tried to follow Hermione's directions, but kept involuntarily bending his arm, or adjusting in some other way — never quite managing to touch me, under any circumstances, and entirely unaware of what he was doing.
— This is absurd, — he frowned. — You and Mum keep saying I'm doing something, but I know perfectly well that I'm not.
— Magic, — I noted, though only Hermione could hear me. — Have him throw something at me.
After several attempts at hitting me with wrapped sweets, Hermione decided to restrict the target area — otherwise the sweets kept flying to the left and right, while Dad was completely convinced he was throwing exactly where Hermione had asked. She placed two chairs immediately to my left and right, and told Dad to throw into the space between them. The result — the sweets flew over my head, between my legs, between a leg and a chair — everywhere except anywhere near me.
At the end of the experiment, I dissolved the magic and became visible to my family again.
— Clear enough? — I addressed everyone. — The sensible course for the two of you is simply to go somewhere else for the duration. Simply to avoid being a random or deliberate casualty. As for me — I'm something of a threat in my own right, and that isn't bravado. I also have a considerable array of protective measures and a set of skills that allow me to get away from anyone, anywhere. As does Hermione. Either way, I've said my piece, and I'm staying. For a number of reasons. As for this stubborn individual — she's your problem to sort out. But follow the voice of reason: staying here, you'd be no help, and my worry for you would increase a hundredfold.
I gave my sister's already rather dishevelled hair an affectionate ruffle, picked up my rucksack, and headed to my room.
There was the matter of Fiendfyre to address — the only means available to me for destroying a soul. Well — not quite destroying; more accurately, purging it of everything accumulated, everything extraneous. But that was precisely what was needed. The question was who to ask. Perhaps it was time to approach this Amber after all? Only under a formal agreement, though — there was no telling what might occur to a witch who practised Dark Magic.
Sitting in my room, I turned the idea over thoroughly from every angle and eventually reached a decision. I wrote a letter addressed to the woman Amber had named as a contact, called Khrustic over — he was lazily dismantling some sort of woven-twig contraption — and sent him off with it.
We'll see what comes of it.
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